


Mr. Neal and Coach MC

by TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Rhett, Coach McLaughlin, D/s undertones, Deal With It, Detention, I can't get this out of my head so now it's in yours, M/M, Mr. Neal - Freeform, Punishment, Rimming, Sexting, Short Shorts, Spanking, Teacher's Lounge, Teachers AU, Tough Decisions, jockstrap, no matter what you do a whale is gonna die, roleplaying, smut soon, top!Link, with a yardstick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: Link is a teacher who's constantly underestimated by his colleagues and disrespected by his students. Rhett is the well-liked wrestling coach who sees Link for who he really is. Sometimes they meet in questionable places to mess around.





	1. Nearly Caught

**Author's Note:**

> Don't tell me your headcanons unless you want this bs to happen. 
> 
> Thanks to annabelle_leigh for the earworm. <3

“Morning, Neal,” the coach says, glancing up from pouring himself a cup of tea to lock eyes with his colleague as he walks into the teacher’s lounge. 

“That’s _Mr._ Neal to you.”

Mr. Neal’s tone is light and jovial, but there’s this underlying edge that hints at something more. The coach knows him enough to know that when he leans on the hard line of formality that he’s having a rough day. That the kids in his class have been acting up, that the other teachers have been giving him a hard time. That dozens of little slights have been adding up all day, all week, collecting just under his skin and leaving him feeling raw and reactive. Has him needing to pick up the loose ends of it all and get a grip of control. 

“Sorry, Mr. Neal,” Rhett corrects himself, spoons sugar into his cup and, picking it up and giving it a stir, turns to lean back on the counter top and eye the apparently mild-mannered teacher as he approaches. 

“That’s better,” his voice changes there. It gets smooth like honey, settles in to the cracks. It warms Rhett more than it maybe ought to, but he’s long since given up being shy about this. These moments they steal together here in the teacher’s lounge or in Link’s classroom (or, now and then, in the locker rooms after wrestling practice, or in the showers, or his own small office…) are what’s keeping him in this job. It’s this connection, this draw he feels to stay working with Link. With Mr. Neal. It’s the reason he hasn’t moved on to something else.

Link starts walking again, comes in close enough that Rhett could damn near touch him if he wanted, and _oh_ but he wants to. He almost does, but there’s a rise of voices on the other side of the door that stills his hand before it even moves from where it’s gripping the edge of the countertop. The both of them stand frozen, eyes locked on the other like guileless kids who’ve been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, listening until the voices pass them by. 

Rhett’s the one who breaks the silence first. Sets his mug of tea down and out of the way beside him and pushes himself up so he’s seated on the counter. Lets his legs spread, knowing without needing to look that Mr. Neal’s eyes will follow. But he looks anyway, just for confirmation. Just to let the heat of that look sear him through. 

Everyone underestimates Mr. Neal. For the life of him, Rhett can’t figure out why that is. If he’s got to hazard a guess, he’d say it’s the combination of the glasses and the always neat, always pressed chinos. The polos and button downs, the oversized cardigans he drowns in that make him look more slender than he is. Rhett knows the truth, though. Knows the sharp gaze that glitters from behind those glasses, knows the strength of his body underneath those clothes, the breadth of his shoulders. Mild-mannered pushover is the last thing Mr. Neal is to Rhett. Should be the last thing he is to anyone, but there’s a certain pleasure he gets in being the only one to see Link the way he really is underneath it all. 

“You trying to get us caught, boy?” Link’s voice rumbles low as he eases into the space between Rhett’s spread knees, close enough that he could lay hands on him. Gosh, Rhett wants him to, aches for the warm weight of those strong hands on his thighs so bad he tenses up, the muscles in his thighs twitching at the memory of touch. If he were wearing his practice shorts, it’d be obvious, too — thank God for small miracles. 

But Link’s not giving him what it is he wants. He’s making him wait, making him answer. 

“Course not,” he’s going for casual but missing the mark. There’s a tightness gripping his voice, giving him away. It’s been too long since they’ve met up like this. Getting caught’s the last thing he wants. Getting caught means there won’t be a next time, and even given the long string of last times, he’s nowhere near ready for this to end. 

Maybe he’ll try and play it cool, try and act like a tease. Rhett leans back on his hands and it leaves him all stretched out and on display for any looking Mr. Neal wants to do, like he thinks he’s playing coy by not leaning in for more, by not demanding. The bonus here is it gives him room, to find space here to breathe. He shifts a little, hooks long fingers through the handle of his mug and takes a sip of his tea, eyeing Link over the rim of it. Just let him have a second to catch his breath, to wet his lips, to recover from the crackle of energy between them. 

It’d be easy, so damn easy for Link to take what it is he’s wanting right here in the lounge where anybody could walk in on them. And Rhett makes him want it, makes him want to push because he knows he’ll give, that he’ll feed into it. Knows that the two of them are like this endless feedback loop amping higher and higher. They’re like wildfire burning out of control. 

Rhett goes to set the mug back on the counter, looks away from Link’s gaze for a second so he doesn’t miss and drop it on the floor, and that’s when Link grabs hold of him. Grips his jaw, fingers held tight, raked through his beard to draw his attention back where he wants it. Right back on him. 

They’re inches away, barely even that. Close enough that Link can feel Rhett’s quickening breath on his face as he leans into him. 

“Then what is it you think you’re doing here?” Link’s voice is low, a mix of warning and invitation, making it out like Rhett’s the one at fault for everything here when the truth is that he’s the one leaning in between Rhett’s spread legs. He’s the one pressing himself shamelessly against the coach in the middle of the currently empty, not so private lounge. He’s the one digging his fingers into that bearded jaw and holding their faces so close together, demanding Rhett’s undivided attention. 

“I-I’m just trying to enjoy my tea,” he stumbles over his words, a lie though _he’s not fooling anyone_ , as his hand searches blindly for his mug. The backs of his fingers graze it, and he’s going to hook his fingers around the handle, but Link beats him to it. Reaches out with his free hand and picks it up, sets it down a little further away. 

“Wanna try that again?” Link asks, finally letting go of Rhett’s jaw. Gives him a gentle, permissive pat on the cheek, encouraging him to offer a better explanation. 

Rhett willfully misinterprets that to suggest that Link wants him to try and pick up his mug again, so he leans over to make another grab for it. Doing so means shifting how he’s sitting on the counter. Means bumping his legs into Link’s hips for balance as he moves to grab the far-from-him mug in a move that’s not so unlike when he’s being fucked all laid out over a desk and ends up with his long legs locked around Link’s slim hips. 

“Not that,” Link’s voice is stern as he grabs Rhett’s wrist in his hand and holds it fast. He’s stronger than he looks, his lean, muscled frame all but swallowed up in that baggy mustard sweater. “You know what I’m asking you. Why you gotta do this the hard way?”

“…maybe I like the hard way,” Rhett all but coos in the short distance between them. There’s an emphasis on _hard_ that leaves no question in Link’s mind — he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s asking for this.

Link smiles to himself, brief and indulgent. Rhett _does_ like the hard way, there’s no doubt about that. But there’s a time and a place, and this… definitely has been the place more than once in the past, but it certainly isn’t the time. 

"You just earned yourself detention... I'll see you in my classroom at 3:15. And you better be wearing those shorts.”

Rhett shivers at the tone in Link’s voice, the seriousness there. The edge of promise that this _is_ going to end up going the hard way, that he’s earned himself punishment for acting like this. For being a goddamn tease when it’s obvious there isn’t time for this. 

And he knows what shorts Link means. He’s talking about the short white gym shorts. They’re honestly too short to be appropriate for school, and it’s a wonder no one’s ever made a comment about them, gotten them banned. It’s a wonder a lot of things haven’t ended up noticed and called out, if they’re honest. They’ve been lucky. 

Rhett glances up at the clock — it’s quarter to noon. He has hours to wait before 3:15 rolls around and he’s already half-hard just from barely brushing up against Link. From teasing him, from this brief back and forth. He should leave well enough alone. He should agree to it and cut his losses before he makes this worse, before they end up caught.

He’s never been good at getting out while he’s ahead. 

“…c’mon, Mr. Neal… I can’t afford another detention on my record,” he plays like he’s a kid, some punk with a long record of detentions. A bad kid bargaining for alternatives, trying to sweet-talk the teacher to get out of it. One big hand rubs up under Link’s sweater, over his button down, gives a little tug to the shirt like he’s trying to un-tuck it from his slacks. “Can’t we work something else out?”

Link grabs his hand again, this time holding it hard enough that it hurts and Rhett makes this soft sound somewhere between protest and pain. 

“You looking to get yourself suspended there, son?” Link’s voice is a warning. He’s giving him one last chance to walk away from this without it getting so much worse than it already is. 

“No,” Rhett says, eyes round as he looks up into Link’s face. For a moment, he almost believes that he could be suspended, almost believes that the game is real. And being suspended is the last thing he’d want, because it’d mean days without seeing his favorite teacher.

“Then what do you say when I tell you you’ve got detention?” he asks, slowly beginning to let go of Rhett’s hand, putting it back down on the counter. Guiding him because he obviously needs guidance, because he can’t be trusted to be good all on his own. 

“Yes sir, Mr. Neal.”

“That’s better. I’ll see you at 3:15.”

There’s the distinct and unmistakable sound of the doorknob turning, and without another word the two of them move away from each other like they’d been burned. Link moves away and pulls his mug down and starts to pour himself a cup of coffee, apparently engrossed in the task while Rhett slides down off the counter and picks his tea back up and heads over to a round table in the center of the room to pick up the morning paper and sink down into a chair. After that encounter, he needs just a few minutes before he’s fit to walk out into the hallway. Needs to think about anything else, the news, politics, _anything else._

Rhett barely glances up at the interloper who interrupted them. He politely gives a nod and an automatic ‘good morning,’ before sipping his tea and flipping open the front page. He catches sight of Link as he leaves. There’s a flush on his neck that tells Rhett he’s really in for it later. That this one was too close for comfort, that it’s left Link feeling more exposed than he’d like to be. They’d damn near been caught and Rhett knows damn well it’s his own fault.

He grins to himself, hidden behind the LA Times. Boy is he ever in for it later.


	2. Six Licks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Neal gave Coach MC detention all the way back in June (I am the worst at updating in a timely manner, I'm so sorry). Today, the fateful conclusion to that tease of a first chapter! Please heed the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is overdue and long-awaited, and is also proudly a fill for the SPLC fundraiser thing I did way back eons ago for the wonderful and lovely LinksLipsSinkShips. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Rhett hadn’t been back in his office longer than fifteen minutes before his phone buzzed in his pocket. It’s still the lunch period, and he really doesn’t have much to do until the next gym period starts so there’s no reason not to check it. He’s not sure why he’s surprised that it’s Link. 

‘Don't forget the jock strap.’

He can’t help it — he feels this warm rush when he reads the message, and there’s a second where he hesitates to respond. He could leave it be for now, but he just can’t.

‘I won’t,’ he taps his reply and hits send.

He doesn’t have long to wait for a response. 

‘Prove it.’

Rhett flushes, all alone in his office, and looks at the blank walls around him like he’s expecting someone’s there watching. He wasn’t going to get changed until later because there’s no reason to wear those short shorts for the rest of his gym classes — and frankly, it’s not appropriate in the least. But the jock strap... he could wear that under his clothes all afternoon. 

‘You’ve got 10 minutes,’ comes a follow up text from the man who's listed in his contacts as _Mr. Neal._

Rhett launches himself out of his chair almost instantly then, feeling only a little shy about how fast he’d responded to the time constraint placed on this task. 

He’s got seven minutes left when he locks the door behind himself in the large single stall faculty bathroom. A bathroom that has more than once played host to one of their escapades. 

He makes quick work of changing out of his underwear and into the crisp white jock, and then he’s left with the task of figuring out how to get the best photograph. Something that’s not completely obscene and flattering at the same time. He vetoed a front view almost immediately, after a few quick snaps confirmed for him just how, well, _filthy_ they were.

He checks the time. He’s got less than three minutes left to get a good picture and send it off. He turns away from the mirror and looks back over his shoulder, rucks his shirt up a little in the back to reveal a thick swath of bare skin on his lower back and he eyes himself, the way the thick white straps frame his ass. He’s got to admit that they help give the illusion of _more_ , of roundness and lift. 

He snaps a few pictures and after flicking through them, picks out his favorite to send it. He ended up using the mirror in the shot, so it’s a half-body shot from his head down to the tops of his long thighs. He’s looking back over his shoulder and he’s holding the phone up to snap his reflection, and the way he’s standing, the way he’s angled erases any doubt about what he’s wearing. It’s obvious and visible, his bare ass exposed, those straps doing hardly anything to conceal him. 

At least he’s not sending him a picture of what’s going on in the front. 

His heart is beating hard and fast in his chest, and it’s just the rush of this. Of taking a dirty picture and texting it to Link in the middle of the school day. It’s the promise of what’s coming later, and the fact that he’s going to be spending the rest of the day wearing these under his slacks instead of his underwear. Knowing that it’s because Link wants him to. Feeling the soft graze of the fabric of his slacks over the bare skin of his ass, wondering all day just how obvious it is. Is it obvious?

He dresses again, folds his discarded underwear and tucks it under his arm so he can make it back to his office without someone seeing what he’s carrying, and once he’s zipped up he turns again to check himself out in the mirror. He doesn’t think it’s particularly obvious, but then again the light isn’t great in here and he’s not moving, not bending, so he doesn’t know, can’t be sure. 

God, 3:15 pm can’t come soon enough.

Rhett’s thanking the powers that be that tonight’s not a practice night, that he doesn’t have to put his ‘detention’ off till 4 to run drills with the boys. He doesn’t think he could last another 45 minutes, doesn’t honestly know how he’d made it this long. 

 

* * *

 

The thing about 3:15 pm is the halls aren’t that empty. There’s still kids milling about. Certainly not as many as would have been there fifteen minutes ago when class let out, but there’s kids heading off for extracurriculars, or actually on their way to detention. 

And then there’s Rhett, strolling down the hallway casual as can be wearing his navy wrestling coach tee, McLaughlin printed on the back across the shoulders, matching sneakers and those white short shorts. He’s got coordinating navy and white banded knee high socks helping to cover some of that leg real estate to make the shortness of the shorts a little less shocking. It maybe doesn’t look inappropriate, but it certainly feels it. Because he knows what he’s walking into, knows what’s coming. Knows that he only ever dresses like this when he’s headed in to meet with Mr. Neal. 

When he’s been bad, or when he’s trying very hard to be good. 

Though, to be fair, he’s never trying that hard to be good. 

Rhett locks the classroom door as he soft-clicks it closed behind himself.

“You’re late.” 

Link’s sitting at his desk in the corner of his dim lit classroom, leaning back in his chair. His legs are crossed, ankle resting on the other knee. His fingers are curled loosely around the arms of his chair, fingernails tapping against the hard plastic as if to say _he’s been waiting_. 

Rhett’s attention whips around to the clock on the wall above his head. _3:21 pm._ It’s not an unreasonable time to arrive, not given the fact that Rhett actually had a gym class that ran until 3:00 pm and he had to stay around the locker rooms until everyone had changed and left so he could lock up. Link knows that. Rhett knows what Link’s doing. It’s not about the time, it’s about the power play of the situation. It’s a part of the game they play together, after hours, stealing time wherever they could find it. 

“I’m sorry, I had a gym class…” Rhett starts to explain himself. 

“I don’t care where you were last, boy. You were supposed to be here six minutes ago.”

The way Link’s voice lands hard on _boy_ sends a thrill through Rhett that twists low in his belly. This is something Rhett craves. When this shift happened and this new facet of their relationship started between them, when they’d started fucking, it had started like this. In stolen moments on school grounds, in locked classrooms or offices. It felt dangerous and safe all at once, the rush of running the risk of getting caught but the safety of Link never pushing for more than he could take, more than he wanted. 

It felt like coming alive, like waking up finally after years of going through the motions. Rhett remembers what life was like before this job, before he’d met Link. He felt like he was missing something, like he’d had an emptiness that ached in him. He knows now that Link was that missing piece, the broken part of him that had gotten lost somehow along the way. 

Rhett supposes that he should count himself lucky for finding him at all, but he can’t help wish he’d found him years ago. It feels like there was so much time lost between them, decades of adventure and belonging that were lost forever due to some mistake of stars and fate. 

Rhett fumbles for his words, barely getting a damn thing out, getting too into the role he’s playing. The delinquent student with detention and already piling on the punishments before he even had a chance to try and make a good impression. 

“Well, come here then,” Link says, one hand rubbing down over his thigh and back up as if to suggest that he wants Rhett to come sit in his lap, his tone leaving little room for argument. 

Rhett feels this nervous thrill, like he’s really in trouble. He can’t help getting caught up in the game of it, can’t help how real it feels sometimes. He misinterprets the hand in Link’s lap and starts to move around the desk to where Link is. 

“Who said to come around the desk? Don’t act like this is the first time you’ve had detention… go on around the other side,” Link nods to the far side of it. There’s something in Link’s tone that could easily come off as cold if you didn’t know better, if you didn’t see his single-minded need for what it was. Far from cold, Link’s burning up, working so damn hard to keep from setting everything around him alight for all the fire that’s ravaging his veins. 

“Sorry,” Rhett moves like he’d been shocked, goes on around to the other side of the desk and stands there, fidgeting and trying in vain to hold his hands in a way that’ll conceal the fact that his shorts are already getting tighter. 

Link hasn’t moved from his seat or stance, still intentionally pulling off an air of easy relaxation, leaning back in his chair. 

“Well?” Link asks, eyeing the taller man. Rhett should know without being reminded that if he’s got to be told to get on with it that this is going to be worse for him. 

It seems that’s what he’s after today. 

“Assume the position, McLaughlin. Hands on the desk.”

Rhett unfolds his hands and moves to the place in the center of the desk where there’s space to, between the pen cup and the paper organizer, and leans forward over the desk, hands flat on the wooden surface of it. 

Link stays seated and regards him openly. He’s not quite in position. His ass isn’t stuck out all the way, not quite close enough to the desk that his thighs are touching it, but they’ll fix that. He can tell Rhett’s trying to keep a little distance, that he’s trying not to lean so close over the desk that he’ll risk pushing into Link’s personal space. Like he thinks this measure of thoughtfulness or hesitation will earn him some leniency. 

He couldn’t be more wrong. 

“Is that the position?” Link asks as he pushes himself up to his feet, shrugs his sweater off his shoulders and drops it in his chair, and moves. He doesn’t need to look to know that Rhett’s attention is following him as stalks around the desk, the heels of his dress shoes clicking on the linoleum with each step. 

Rhett reacts like he’d been burned, flinching from the flame, and moves closer to the desk, bare thighs brush the front of it and he bends his arms, lowers himself down onto his elbows and keeps his hands flat on the desk, fingers outstretched. 

“Sorry,” Rhett rushes to apologize, shifting a little bit to find a comfortable stance, one he can hold because he knows from experience that he’s going to be bent over the desk for a _while_ , now. 

“Sorry, _Mr. Neal,_ ” Link corrects him, landing a swat to his ass to chide him for his miss. A spank that doesn’t even count in the grand scheme of this detention, and Rhett goddamn knows it. Rhett’s being bad enough that he’s earning himself extras.

“Sorry Mr. Neal!” Rhett’s voice pitches high in panic he can’t control. The game feels so real when he’s like this, when they’re to the point that he’s bent down, ass up and waiting. His heart is racing and all he wants is to look back at Link and take in how he looks, how cool and authoritative, how fucking serious he is when they come together like this. He’s mean around the edges when they play student and teacher, a bit of an asshole, but he likes it. He likes Link sharp and biting, likes him hawking for any misstep and poised to take it out on his hide.

“That’s better…”

Link lays a soft _pat, pat, pat_ to Rhett’s ass, like he’s reassuring him. Like he’s not about to beat his ass raw.

Link moves up to the board and picks a yardstick up out of the chalk tray and rests it in the other palm, giving it a few light bounces like he’s testing it for flexibility, for give, for heft. He knows Rhett’s watching his every move. 

“Now, McLaughlin… you’re going to get a lick for every minute you were late. More if you make a scene. Understood?”

Six. _Six_. That’s all he can think right now is that he’s going to get six strokes with a yardstick and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to drive home. He’s been on the receiving end of spanks from Link enough to know that this won’t be easy to take, and even when it’s done that’s not the end. 

Rhett must have been obviously getting worked up and lost in his thoughts because Link lets the edge of the stick drag down the backs of his bare legs to bring his attention to the surface and asks, “Do you understand, Rhett?”

Link drops the game of _McLaughlin_ , calling him by his last name like he’s a wayward kid, in favor of breaking through the rise of panic. It’s effective. 

“Yeah… yeah, I understand.” Pause. “I understand, Mr. Neal.”

Link leans down over the desk so he’s on his level, plants his hand near one of Rhett’s, and makes a point to catch his gaze as he asks him, “Do you know your safe word?” 

The game breaks here, pauses for a moment. Link’s voice isn’t hard and punishing like the blows that are going to be coming to him, in that moment it’s soft and warm like honey. It’s a comfort, and it reminds him that this is hard because they like it hard and that if Rhett can’t take it or doesn’t want it as hard as they’d planned it, then all he’s gotta do is say the word. 

“Yes... Sir.”

“Mr. Neal,” he pushes back into the game gently, guides Rhett in the direction of his role.

“Mr. Neal…” Rhett corrects himself, “I’m sorry, Mr. Neal.”

“It’s alright, baby,” Link drops the game again, pivoting back and forth from in the game to back out of it that Rhett’s head is fucking spinning. His cheeks warm in response to that word, to _baby_ , a word they bat back and forth behind closed doors. Their word. “...do you need to use your safe word now? I won’t be mad, and we can do something else...”

Link isn’t dicking him around, he’s asking to be sure this is all okay. He’s been fairly demanding today, asking for the pictures, asking him to show up in a jockstrap and short shorts while there was still staff in the building. Planning to tan his hide with a yardstick and fuck him right here over the desk. He’s got to know this isn’t too far. 

“No, Mr. Neal… I wanna take my licks.”

“There’s a good boy… stick your ass out real nice, now. You don’t wanna make me miss,” Link moves to stand and taps the swell of Rhett’s ass gently with the end of the yardstick for emphasis. He watches as Rhett shifts and arranges himself the way he’s been asked to. 

The first lick comes without warning, and Rhett rocks with the impact. It’s not the force that moves him, but the pain, and his involuntary need to put distance between his ass and the source of it. 

“Stay still.”

God, he’s trying. “Yes, Mr. Neal...”

The next one feels harder. At least, it hurts more. It doesn’t land quite on the same spot but there’s an overlap, an edge where the new blow angers the old and try as he might he can’t be still and take it, rocks forward on the balls of his feet, tense, struggling. 

“What did I just say?” 

“Sorry, sorry…”

“You’re not listening,” Link corrects him with a _tsk_ , “I said to stay still. I was going to let you keep your shorts up if you could manage to take your licks like a man, but it’s obvious you can’t.”

“No, Mr. Neal, I’m sorry… I’ll stay still, you said to stay still,” Rhett twists to look back over his shoulder, steadfastly keeping his hands on the desk (he’s learned his lesson on that front, after all) and catches a glimpse of Link before he’s scolded. A glimpse of that focused expression hardening his features, stern and harsh and so fucking authoritative with those wild streaks of gray in his hair. 

“Face forward, McLaughlin,” Link snaps as he leans the yardstick against the desk so he has his hands free to pull Rhett’s shorts down, and tugs them over his ass and down his thighs and leaves them there above the knee. 

Link hums softly. He approves of what he sees, of Rhett’s pink-striped bare ass framed in white elastic, the jockstrap he’d requested he wear. One fingertip dips under the elastic beneath one cheek and traces delicately inwards, letting go before he’s close enough to anything that might like to be touched. 

“Four more. Are you ready?”

He’s not ready, but that single finger of attention was enough to completely derail him again. He’s feeling aftershocks of that trace skittering down his thigh and twisting in his belly. His response is belated when it comes. 

“Yes, Mr. Neal…”

“Are you paying attention?” Link asks, choosing to interpret the delay as a different kind of distraction for the purpose of the game. 

“I am, I pr- _ohhh!_ ” Rhett can’t even respond before the next blow comes, the third. Harder than the last two and landing across his bare cheeks, the sharp sting ringing through him, like a bell echoing through his core. 

“Stop moving.”

He manages it on the fourth one, manages to hold his ground and _take it_. He’s biting his lip and his palms are sweat-soaked and slipping on the desk, staying put by sheer force of will alone. The sound that fucking yardstick makes as it slaps down hard on his ass is obscene, and he’s afraid it can be heard from the hall. 

Rhett’s ass isn’t so big as to allow a fresh stripe every time another blow lands, and so five layers over the some of the four that had come before it. Rhett’s choking back a sudden, uncontrollable sob, looking down at his hands to focus him in the moment. One more, just one more. He can take this. One more and it’ll shift. One more, and Link will make him feel good. 

He loses the battle he’s been waging with himself at six, and it rocks him forward again. Once again, it’s not the force (though it is forceful) but the jump of his nerves, the instinct to escape, and slams his thighs into the edge of the desk _hard_ in his desperate bid to escape the bite of the stick.

“I’m sorry,” Rhett stammers, shoulders tense under the smooth cotton of his t-shirt. “I’m sorry, I tried to stay still, I tried to…”

Link won’t hear his frantic, mumbled apologies, and quiets them with a _”Shh,”_ and a hand resting on his striped, sore ass, not missing the flinch in response. He’s tender. _That’s perfect._

“Quiet, now… take this and hold onto it for me,” Link’s insistent as he hands the yardstick to Rhett, makes him hold it in his fists instead of continuing to keep his hands flat on the desk. Makes him feel and hold and look down at the implement that had left his ass smarting like it is, another subtle dig into the punishment, the humiliation of the game.

Rhett takes it and sniffs, ashamed that he’s fighting back an edge of tears. He’s flustered and he’s so hard, the skimpy jockstrap not doing much to conceal his dick anymore. As he grips the yardstick tight in his fists he can feel Link’s hands rub down over his sore cheeks and on downwards until they’re squeezing the backs of his firm thighs like he’s getting ready to knead his flesh, getting ready to pry him apart. Link can’t keep his hands off him, one moving up between his legs to cup and fondle him while the other lingers over his thigh, the spread of index and thumb cradling the swell of his little ass on the sweep back upwards. 

The hand that moves between his legs and rubs him through that thin cotton fabric finds it damp where he’s been leaking as he took his licks. There’s no hiding, no denying the fact that as much as it was hard to take, there was this dark part of him that got off on being the center of Link’s attention, taking everything he had to give him. On proving that he could.

“ _Ohmygosh_ , what’s happening?” Rhett’s voice is a strange distant thing, a mingled whine as his overstimulated brain can’t work out just what’s happening, just what Link is doing to him. Belatedly, he remembers to tack on the address, “Mr. Neal...?”

“You’re still not listening to a damn thing I say, are you?” Link’s hand rubs warm over the criss-crossed swell of Rhett’s sore ass, and he knows he’s making it worse. He uses that point of connection, his hand resting there atop his ass for balance as he moves behind him. As he sinks to his knees. 

“I’m giving you your licks.” 

That’s the response Rhett gets to his question, Link’s voice coming from so close behind him that he can feel his breath warm against his bare, hot skin. 

Strong hands pry Rhett’s cheeks apart, tease them open slow because he knows as sore as he is that every touch will be like fire in his veins. When he can, he leans into him, well aware that the sharp drag of his stubble over that sensitive skin has to be overwhelming after what he’d endured, another almost-too-much sensation thrown into the mix. Link loves how it pulls a high keening sound from the man bent over the desk. But it’s nothing to the sound he wins when his tongue laves over his entrance. 

“Oh _fuck._ ”

“Watch your mouth,” Link chides him, talking directly against his skin, not bothering to move away, and the heat of his mouth and breath against that licked damp skin has shivers chasing up Rhett’s spine. “Settle down… you know what’s coming. One lick for each minute you kept me waiting.”

Oh God, only six? He’d wasted one already, too overwhelmed to really enjoy it. He knows it’s not true but he’s seized with this fear that after these six that Link, that Mr. Neal will leave him hanging. That the punishment will end there, with him spanked sore and licked so hard he’s a leaking mess in his shorts and sent on his way without release. 

“Hold still, McLaughlin,” Link murmurs as he nuzzles in close and licks him again, this time lingering. Taking his time, calling it still just one lick if his mouth hasn’t closed yet, if he hasn’t come up for air. Rhett’s legs feel liquid hot and he’s thankful for the support of the desk, sure he’d sway if he had to support himself under his own power. It’s only two and Rhett can feel that fucking magic tongue already starting to try and squirm its way inside him. 

He makes little headway but it’s no matter. Link comes up for air, licks his lips and watches Rhett’s body react to the loss, how he arches, ass pushing back to chase his mouth. Link kneads those sore cheeks in strong hands and presses a little kiss to a particularly colorful yardstick-width stripe and dives in again. 

Rhett grips the yardstick tight, knuckles white, warring with himself to stay quiet, to be good. He wants to be so good for him, prove he’s a good boy so that this ‘punishment’ can shift to praise. So that by the time they’re done, Link’s stern voice dips warm again, telling him how good he’d done. 

By the fourth lick, Rhett loses the battle he’s fighting. His cock is still leaking on the desk beneath him; in fondling him Link must have rearranged the fabric and he’s no longer completely contained, the head of his cock trapped against his belly and peeking out from beneath the elastic band. _It’s too much_ and a moan breaks from his lips. 

Link swats his already sore ass lightly with one hand, feeling how he flinches, tenses, and pulls away to correct him. “Be quiet or I’ll make you be quiet, understood?”

Fuck, Link’s voice is raw with desire and that completely undermines the intended effect, just serves to distract Rhett more. Has him picturing Link wild eyed, lips saliva-slick, trying and failing to keep control of _himself_ let alone the situation he’s leading them through. Rhett nods, head bowed, looking down at the wooden desktop. _Be quiet. He’s gotta be quiet._

Five and Link’s tongue starts to work it’s way inside his body, warm and wet and moving. It’s a different feeling entirely than a finger or a cock, it’s hotter and it’s stranger. It’s a sensation that even now, however many times they’ve played this game, feels impossible to compute. He knows what’s happening, but it doesn’t stop it from feeling unbelievable. 

Rhett’s pulled in so many different directions, being good and feeling what’s happening behind him, trying to ignore some measure of the sensation so he doesn’t jolt right out of his skin, that he misses a telling sound behind, a soft click. 

Six comes after a break away from the depths of him for a breath of air, comes as one last long lick and then the slow sink of one long finger inside him. Rhett arches like his nerves been pulled taut, like he’s a marionette and Link’s got his fingers tangled in his strings and he’s gasping, unable to catch his breath.

But he’s quiet, and when Link’s mouth finally comes away and Rhett’s taken all his licks like a good boy, Link tells him as much. Babbles soft words praise into his hot flesh as he carries on easing him open with his fingers. 

“Look at you… look how good you can be when you put your mind to it,” Link presses a soft kiss to an angry patch of skin as one finger becomes two, and Rhett struggles with every fiber of his being to keep being good and quiet. He’s not wholly successful, his breaths coming labored as he lets his forehead fall to the desk.

Link could take his time with this, draw it out, but he doesn’t need to. Not when Rhett’s been hard since before he’d even bent over the desk. Not with how he’s fighting for silence as Link opens him up.

“Please…” Rhett finally breaks, has to say something, has to _ask_. He needs to see a light at the end of this endless tease, like Link’s ever left him hanging, ever worked him up and let him leave. It’s a favorite threat, but it’s nothing he’s ever made good on, nothing he ever would. Link enjoys the crash far too much to lay on the brakes. 

“Since you asked so nice…” 

This has gone on long enough and Link’s so eager to fuck him that he’s moving hastily. Taking back his hand and moving to his feet, he unzips his slacks, making a point to stay close enough that his knuckles tease against bare, raw skin as he works. As much as he wants to be a moment or two ahead of himself, already sunk into Rhett so deep it’s hard to tell where they each begin and end, he likes this part too. He likes the way Rhett can’t quite tell what is and isn’t okay in the moment as it shifts. Like, should he follow the old rules that say to keep his eyes straight ahead, or can he look back over his shoulder? Should he stay quiet or is he allowed to react?

Link manages to be just slow enough that Rhett finally dares to look back at him, over eager and needing feedback, confirmation that he’s not alone in this dry-mouthed wanting. And he gets that confirmation in spades. 

He sees Link standing behind him with his hand wrapped around his slick cock and stroking, staring him down like he’s got a mind to go back and finish what he’d started, devour him whole. Rhett catches sight of him moving in close enough to guide the blunt head of that big cock between his still damp cheeks. 

“Oh fuck, _oh_ —”

So much for being quiet. The rules are all but forgotten as Link takes Rhett by the hips and sinks into him in one stroke, their groans mingling hot in the air as their bodies finally slot together, Rhett’s thighs pressing into the edge of the desk as he bottoms out. As those bony hips press into the hot striped skin of Rhett’s sore ass. The yardstick shudders against the desk as Rhett’s fists tighten, as his hands shake with the effort to keep hold. 

Rhett’s effort and struggle to be good even now is such a fucking turn on and Link can’t get enough, wants to push him to the very brink of how good he can be before he breaks. He’s barely given Rhett a chance to adjust to the feeling of being full before he’s moving, but it’s a relief if the sound Rhett makes says anything about it. Rhett’s been partly hard since before noon, since that encounter in the teacher’s lounge, and every second he’s made to wait a little longer to get he needs is fucking agony. 

What he needs is _this_. He needs Link to push him where he can’t go alone, needs it hard and fast and punishing even now because it’s the only way to get there. Link’s going to leave finger shaped bruises on his hips that will color over the next few days, in competition with those striped welts for which will keep the last hold on his body before giving way. They’ll be souvenirs to remember this moment by, to pass his hand over the mottled yellow and blue and recall the way it felt with Link’s strong hands gripping vice tight. 

Link’s fucking him so hard and so fast it practically feels like another round of spanking, this time more force and rocking than bite and sting. Rhett can barely manage to push back against him, into him for the strength behind each powerful thrust. He’s being fucked into the desk and it’s fucking perfect, it’s hard and brutal, Link’s body like a wall behind him, this unstoppable force he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. There’s a sick thrill at the feeling of being overpowered, whether it’s true or imagined, the idea that Link could take what he wanted whether Rhett wanted to give it or not. 

Rhett’s breathing is ragged. Link is relentless. Beneath them, the desk groans against the linoleum as it moves with the force of their fucking. _They’re moving the desk._ That thought swirls in Rhett’s sex-addled brain for a moment or two before it’s completely lost to how fucking goddamn good Link feels as he pistons into him, as he finds that place inside him and hones in, drags that fat cock over it again and again. 

Rhett’s _shaking_ and he doesn’t shake. Link’s the one that does, hands almost always slightly shaking, and here Rhett’s trembling like he’s going to fall apart at the seams. There’s a loud crack that does nothing to jolt him from the moment, from how well he’s being railed. The yardstick in his fists is broken in the middle, the fibers still holding it together but it’s just a matter of time before it’s in pieces, just like Rhett is. 

“Oh, please…” Rhett groans, starts to babble. “Please… please, g-god, please…” Begs Link. For what? He can’t articulate it, but what he wants is obvious enough. He wants to come, he fucking needs it after hours spent wanting. He needs Link to give him that final push that lets him tip over the edge, to let him lose himself completely. 

Link reaches around him, stuffs his hand down the front of his jockstrap and wraps his fist around his cock, jerking him in time with how he’s fucking him. It’s four strokes, barely five and Rhett’s coming in thick ropes over Link’s hand, over his belly, over the desk and he comes with a startled shout he can’t control. It’s lucky he’d locked the door -- if someone comes checking on the scream, it buys them time -- but regardless, that’s a transgression Link will only tolerate once. His hand, fingers sticky with come, flies to clap over Rhett’s mouth. 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Link growls in his ear, holding himself up over Rhett with his other hand planted against the desk. There’s a timer on this between the tell-tale shout that’s going to send someone coming to check on them and how close he already was. Link’s got to come so they can get out of this compromising position, so they don’t get caught, but he’s _got to come or else he’s going to fucking die._ Soon, he’s got to soon, but at the same time it’s already so much that he’s not sure that he’ll weather it. 

But then he does, dear god he comes so hard he fucking sees stars and he’s completely heedless to just how hard he holds Rhett then, how hard his hand grips his mouth, the last snaps of his hips before he stills. Rhett’s so fucked out and overwhelmed, so lost in sensation all too much _too much_ that he can’t manage more than a whimper muffled into Link’s clapped hand, breathing deep through his nose to try and catch his breath. 

Link is still inside him a few moments later when Rhett hears the breathy command in his ear, “Clean it up…”

Mindlessly, Rhett licks his fingers as they come away from his mouth, chases them like that’s what the order was about. Link doesn’t give him that option, swipes the mess on his hand down over Rhett’s freckled chest, and clarifies. 

“...off the desk. Clean your mess up off my desk.”

Rhett looks down at the mess he’d made, the streak he’d left on the dark wood. It’s then that it registers that he’d destroyed the yardstick, snapped it in half at some point -- when? -- and he starts to fumble for words to apologize as Link moves to give him the space to follow through with the command. Stands and slips out of him and murmurs, breathless, “Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Rhett groans at the loss, but there’s relief there too, cool air against his too-hot skin like salve to a wound. He shifts, so aware of his body with every move as he leans down and laps up every trace of his own come from the wooden surface. What does it say about him that he loves this part, too, that diving headlong into the mess of it is a fresh thrill. Who wood have guessed that the memory of doing things like this were going to be the kinds of things he held onto when the day stretched on long, during meetings and conferences when he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. 

Just like that it seems the spell is broken, the game over. Link helps Rhett up and pulls him in for a kiss, tasting Rhett on his own mouth, sinking a hand into his sandy hair to hold him close for a moment. It’s a moment they don’t have, but it’s a moment Rhett needs so he risks it, presses his luck. The door may be locked, but there’s a window at eye level and it wouldn’t take much effort to peer in, to catch a glimpse of them like this. 

“You did so good, baby,” Link coos against Rhett’s whiskered mouth as he pulls back for air, and reinforces the words with another kiss, chases the taste of the coach with a searching tongue. Rhett needs more aftercare than they have time for here and now, Link knows that much. He can feel it on him, in the way he melts against him like he’s formless, like he needs to find a mold to settle into while he rebuilds himself from the heavy boneless mess he’s left in. 

Rhett nods and smiles stupid-happy against Link’s mouth and murmurs a soft, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Link answers and kisses him again, catches his lower lip affectionately in his teeth and kisses again, in apology. 

“C’mon… my grading can wait, and we’ve gotta get dressed before someone comes to check in on your screamin’ yer head off…”

Rhett doesn’t want to go if it means leaving this, and he curls his hand in the fabric of the dress shirt Link’s wearing, and he doesn’t get a chance to try and put words to his thoughts before Link answers his concerns. 

“...you still got a change of clothes at my house from last time. I’ll give you a ride in tomorrow.”

Rhett smiles then, easy and relieved, and noses against Link’s cheek as he nods, their foreheads bumping together. 

“I’ll give _you_ a ride in tomorrow,” he says, the intention behind that obviously to be suggestive, but tired as he is it comes off sounding goofy enough that Link’s caught off guard by it and bursts into a fit of giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what time it is. >:)


End file.
